Flatmates
by jeviennis
Summary: Things might have been very different for John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, if, just for a moment, their paths hadn't crossed.


Flatmates

It's cold mid-March morning, and John Watson wakes up in a cold, dark, lonely flat in London. He sighs to himself and reluctantly drags his body out of bed, leaning forward to grab his walking stick from where it leans up against the radiator so he can limp over to his desk and open his laptop.

_The Blog of Dr John Watson._

The title stares at him, making him feel foolish. A blog. What is he, 12? Of course, his therapist said it was a good idea, so there is his blog, not a single post gracing the page. There doesn't need to be anything. _Nothing happens to me. _And it doesn't. The same routine, day after day, week after week, in the same flat with the same fucking cane, and nothing to shake him up. That's the way it always works. John wakes up, stares at the laptop, has breakfast, stares at the laptop some more, gets dressed, then comes back to stare at the small screen, as if it will open up a world of possibilities for him. It never does. Then John goes out and hands his CV, small though it is, to as many employers as he can without feeling like a desperate reject; an army pension will only get you so far, and he hands down refuses to spend his life wasting away in this pathetic block of flats where next door's underage mother never stops shouting at her child and the social retard upstairs grows pot.

John doesn't think anything will ever interrupt this lowly existence. John's right. Because in this universe, under this sun, this sky, on this Earth, John Watson never met Sherlock Holmes.

On the other side of London, Sherlock Holmes jumps to life with a start. It's damn near freezing where he's fallen asleep, face pushed rather unattractively against the wall of his small apartment, and now Sherlock's got enough knots in his neck to rival a Scouts camping trip. For him as well, things on the work front have been moving rather slowly, and Mycroft can only get him so many deals on the rent for this place. But he's slightly pickier than John, so he's not applying for anything and everything. Hell, let the good jobs come to him. They take their time, though. Once in a blue moon, there'll be a lovely case involving a stolen Egyptian artefact or a murder spree supposedly committed by an 8 year old girl, but apart from that, things are rather dull. Shoplifting; boring. Car theft; boring. Grievous bodily harm; boring. Nothing is getting him going.

Though Sherlock will never admit it, he's slightly lonely. In this flat, there's no one to remark when he brings home dead things from Molly's morgue to examine or when he fights Arab assassins in his front room. There's never going to be anyone to do that for him. Because when Sherlock and John pass by each other as they walk past the door of 221B Baker Street, they just carry on going.

"_Oh, god, I'm so sorry, I didn't see you."_

"_No, honestly, it's fine. My fault. In a bit of a rush, you see."_

"_Oh, yeah, of course. I didn't spill any coffee on your coat, did I?"_

"_No, no, you're okay."_

"_Right, cheers. See you."_

There's no flare as the universe realigns itself to accommodate this pair. There's no sudden realisation that each man has just met the singularly most important person in their life. They just walk by and forget about each other.

And yet John can't shake the feeling that he's not supposed to be on his own. That, call him cliché, he was made for bigger and better things than confinement in a lock down prison supposedly known as an apartment in East London. That there is more to his life than looking at a bright computer screen in a dark room or wearing the same jacket with leather elbow patches because he really can't be bothered to get a new one.

Somewhere inside, Sherlock knows he doesn't want to be alone. His mind works better with company anyway, and on the occasion that people have something at least halfway interesting to say, he is content talking to them. And Sherlock also knows, from many failed attempts with a faulty kettle, that he makes a really shit cup of tea, and he'd quite like someone who can make him a half decent one in the morning.

So both men, unaware of each other's actions, put their flats on the market and go house-hunting. They allow themselves, just for a second, to dream a little bigger than their tax bracket and both find themselves wandering back towards 221B, because the location's nicer than Sherlock's flat – it's nearer to St. Barts – and because unlike John's seemingly impenetrable cage of doom, it actually has windows that let real, not fluorescent light in and make the place look like somewhere worth living.

And it's on this day – in early April, now – that fate, or destiny, or whatever it's called, look at them and think that maybe, somewhere along the line, some higher power screwed around with these men, and that they were supposed to meet after all, because, really, who can ignore the signs? So fate takes the lives of the detective and the doctor up to the Big Man to be reconsidered, just for a second, as they approach Baker Street, getting closer and closer. It's only when Mycroft texts Sherlock saying that he really ought to see a doctor about that chest infection, and when Harry texts John to say that she knows that he's aware of her drinking and he responds _'What are you, a detective?' _that fate knows that the cosmos is just dicking around, so forgoes any and all formalities and just throws the pair together. Besides, the link between them is so inexplicably perfect, because these two just seem to _fit_, that it would be a crime not to. And so, for the universe's sake, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes meet for a second time.

"_Sorry, do I know you from somewhere?"_

"_Yes, you threw coffee over me a couple of weeks ago, if I remember correctly."_

"_Right, that'll be it. You here to look at the flat as well?"_

"_Just came to see what it's like. Couldn't possibly afford it on my own, though."_

"_No, nor me. But who'd want to share a flat with me?"_

"_Funnily enough, I was thinking the exact same thing."_


End file.
